Chapter 10 - Besiana
Besiana
Asliver of light slips between the blinds, painting bars on the bedroom walls. It’s early, but I know Dom is up. His side of the bed is empty and cold. I rise and wrap myself in silk. In this family, nothing stays warm for long.
I find my way downstairs, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by the long hallways. Dom is already seated at the head of the massive dining table. There’s a newspaper folded by his plate and his phone in his hand. Cold marble stretches between us, stark and uninviting.
“Morning,” he says, eyes not leaving his screen. We’ve been married several days, and apart from the wild intimacy the night I sneaked out and got drunk in Brooklyn, he’s been distant. Distracted.
“Good morning.” I sit and reach for the coffee. My fingers brush against his for a second before he moves away, tapping something out with his thumb. “Busy day?”
“Aren’t they always?” His smile is quick and tight.
After three days of marriage, I still feel like a stranger in his house. I let silence take root between us, sip my coffee, and study his face. He looks as if he hasn’t slept, with shadows under his eyes, and lines of worry on his forehead.
I think of the note I found about a meeting with a chemist. I have to know more, have to figure out what he’s keeping from me. Maybe I can learn something without him realizing I’m curious.
“I need a few things from the drugstore. Did you know, in England they call pharmacists chemists? Isn’t that interesting?”
I watch as Dom’s mouth tightens, his unhappiness forming a crack along his jawline. I pour cream into my cup and watch the blackness lighten.
“Not really,” he says.
His disinterest is cold, pointed.
I push on. “Well, it’s just I saw some note about a meeting with a chemist, and I wondered if they might have the things I need.
So I don’t have to go to the drugstore.” I pause, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Perhaps I could come with you and ask? Instead of traipsing about town by myself.”
His eyes are on me now, sharp and suspicious. He’s trying to read me, to figure out what my angle is.
“What note?” he asks.
I stir sugar into my coffee and keep my tone light.
“Oh, just some note I saw on a side table upstairs,” I say, shrugging as if it’s unimportant. It’s hard to suppress the urge to press him, to demand answers. “So, is the meeting today? Because I really can’t wait until tomorrow.”
There’s a pause before he answers, a stretch of tense silence that feels like a standoff.
“The meeting is today, but you’re not coming.”
The words hang in the air. I feign disinterest.
“Okay, no problem. I’ll head to the drugstore instead.” I set down my cup. My appetite has vanished, and the tension in the room has stripped my patience. “Well, I’ll be off. Shopping calls.”
“Don’t buy out the city, Besiana,” he says with a ghost of a smirk, then he’s back to his phone.
I walk toward the door, but Dom's words follow me, pulling me to a stop in the massive hallway. I turn back, catching his gaze with a steady look.
“What’s my limit?” I ask, careful to keep my voice casual, unbothered.
I don’t want to annoy him by over-spending or snag his attention by under-spending, I need to keep him content and looking elsewhere. But for that, I need to understand his expectations.
“What limit?”
Dom’s brow lifts, a mixture of amusement and seriousness on his face.
“On the black Amex you gave me.” I watch him, waiting for a reaction.
He finally looks up, my question snagging his attention at last.
“It has no limit, Besiana. You should know that.”
I press him further, refusing to let him dismiss me so easily.
“I mean, what’s your limit on what I can spend?”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression before he directs his focus back to the phone.
“Spend whatever you like. Ten grand, twenty grand. Whatever you need.”
His words are definitive, leaving no room for doubt or negotiation.
I nod, satisfied, and leave him at the table, pretending his flippancy doesn’t bother me.
Up in the cavernous bedroom, I dress carefully, knowing that every choice is a statement.
I put on a gown by an Albanian designer, Mirela Vokshi, who dresses diplomats and princesses. It makes me feel powerful and defiant.
I slip on heels and a long coat, checking myself in the mirror. Everything fits perfectly, every line smooth and intentional. My reflection stares back at me, a mixture of ice and steel. Perfect.
Then I leave the cold, empty room behind, the sound of my footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Outside, I pause for a moment, the wind biting at my face. A dull, gray sky stretches overhead. I glance back at the mansion, towering and unwelcoming, and decide I have nothing to lose.
The cold follows me as I leave the mansion, the sky a sheet of slate.
I linger near the garage, pulling my coat tight against the November chill, deciding my next steps.
I borrow an SUV and drive out the gates, passing the guards with a wave.
Around the corner, I pull into a driveway behind a hedge and wait.
It takes hours before Dom’s preferred black town car slides by with his driver at the wheel. I follow at a distance.
I tail them through the city. My heart drums against my ribs with each turn they take.
East, then south, winding through crowded streets and blocks of factories.
The further we go, the more it feels like Dom is dragging a wire through me, pulling tight and close to snapping.
We pass buildings with boarded windows, the landscape of someone else's struggle.
On a narrow side street, Dom’s car pulls into an empty parking lot.
I wait until he disappears into a building, then drive past and park around the corner.
Ten minutes later, Dom’s car drives away, and I can just make him out in the back seat.
To be sure, I give it an extra five minutes before rounding the corner and walking toward the building.
My heels click against the cracked asphalt as I hurry to the entrance. Security is tight, but when I buzz, somebody lets me up. I breathe deep before going inside, bracing myself against the mingling scents of chemicals and dust.
Inside the ramshackle exterior is a pristine laboratory, all gleaming surfaces and cutting-edge equipment. In the back, a woman moves between rows of equipment, her blonde curls tied in a careless knot. She has the harried look of someone in love with their work, with no time for anything else.
“Hello?” I say.
The sound bounces off concrete walls.
She looks up, a question in her eyes. I see her calculating, adding up who I am, and why I’m here.
“Besiana Rosetti,” she says.
It sounds strange and uncertain on her tongue. She clearly knows who I am, which is a blow, but there’s no turning back now.
“That’s me. And you must be the famous chemist.”
I give her my best smile, disarmament through charm. Another one of the skills Baba taught me.
“Dr. Voss,” she tells me. She studies me for a long second, then shrugs and turns back to her work. “You just missed Domenico, I’m afraid. If you hurry, you might catch him.”
This is the first person outside the family I’ve heard refer to my husband by his first name, and at her bravery, she goes up a notch in my estimation.
“The boys are busy.” I watch her, intrigued by the tidy chaos. “They thought I might like to see the work in progress.”
She waves me over, warming to the attention. Her movements are brisk and assured, fingers flying between bottles and test tubes.
“Not much to see, but we’re making progress. New chemical compounds take time.”
I pretend to follow, letting her explain while I file away details. Names of chemicals. Their functions.
She lifts a large, amber-colored jar.
“See this?” Her eyes are alight with a strange kind of hunger. “Ixaphorine. Almost pure compound. It’s the key to our new formula.”
“Iride?”
I say the name, careful to sound only mildly curious.
“Yes.” She places the jar down with reverence. “It will be groundbreaking. A transient neurocognitive modulation with minimal acute or persistent side effects.”
I look at her blankly, trying to figure out what the hell she’s saying. “Er…”
She smiles. “Like ecstasy but without the risk of long-term neural impairment. Truly, it’s a scientific breakthrough.”
I glance at the shelves, counting the jars.
“That’s not much for something still in progress.”
“We keep the bulk stored elsewhere,” she says, absentmindedly, absorbed in her own genius.
“And this compound? The ixa….”
“Ixaphorine.”
“Right. Where do you—”
She interrupts, more enthusiastic than secretive. “A warehouse on 12th Street. Ixaphorine is hard to find, incredibly rare, really, but I think we’ve got enough for months.”
“Impressive.” I let admiration creep into my voice. “Thank you for showing me around, Dr. Voss.”
She looks surprised by my gratitude.
“Clara,” she says with a flicker of a smile.
I take out my phone the second I’m outside. My fingers fly over the screen.
“Tell me you have something for me,” comes my father’s voice. It sounds so cold, like frozen fury.
“Yes, I…”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I found the chemist and the lab, but Dr. Voss’s smile, Clara’s smile, filters through my memory. She was friendly, and she clearly is only in this for the science, not the power, and I hate to think what Baba would do to her.
Actually, I know exactly what he would do to her, and the thought turns my stomach.
“Talk to me, daughter. You found the chemist?”
His voice hums with cold satisfaction.
“No, but I…” I search frantically for something else I can tell him. The air feels heavy, and I struggle to find breath. “I discovered one of their key ingredients. Iaxa-something. I can’t remember the name, but I have the address where they store it. 12th Street.”
He’s silent for a moment. I picture him sitting behind his desk, that unsettling gray stare fixed on some distant point.
“You’ve done well,” he finally says.
The call ends before I can respond. I stand on the empty sidewalk, the sky hanging low and oppressive. I tuck my phone away, shivering against the cold and the truth of what I’ve done.
I breathe in deep, forcing calm, but all I can feel is the tightening of chains.